My dear New York friend Francis was in London last week, helping his mum paint the house. I decided to buy a cheap ticket on RyanAir that would deposit me in London at about noon on Saturday and fly me back to Stockholm at 6 a.m. on Sunday. I got my friend Helen to come from Copenhagen and make an adventure of it. I figured we would stay up all night until about 3:30a.m., at which point I'd start making my way to Liverpool St. Station so I could get on the first Stansted Express train available.
What was grandma thinking?
Look, it's not that a 31 year old woman can't do a 12 hour trip to London. It's just that I can't do that. Not only that, I don't WANT to do it. I'll take a hot shower, clean sheets and a comic book over hard partying anyday.
Drinks by the Thames near Millennium Bridge. Obvs did not exist when I lived there.
But it was super fun to see Francis and Helen, if only for a few hours. I had all kinds of transportation mishaps, though. I took the bus to the wrong airport on the way over, but because I am a planner, I had enough time to take the express train back to Stockholm and pick up the correct bus to Skavsta airport. (Which, incidentally, is like a Barbie doll airport in the middle of a cow patch.)
It's strange because I hadn't been back to London since I lived there twelve years ago. Twelve years! I had a miserable time most of the year because I didn't force myself to go out and make friends.
I did really spend time cooking, though. I used to go to the Portobello Rd. Market every weekend to pick up vegetables from the loud hawkers, occasionally splurging on a few mushy, tart dolmas from the olive barrel stand.
On the flight over, I had little flashbacks of my year. I remember the view from the window of my craptastic apartment on Canfield Gardens off of Finchley Road. I spent the entire year wondering where the fucking gardens were. Suddenly, in May, that naked tree I'd been resenting all year clothed itself in lush green foliage. And I was on my way back home to California.
I remember the big pots of sauce I would make from fresh tomatoes, breaking them down over low heat until they liquefied. Or the spot on my roommate's carpet where the one space heater we shared melted the thin pink rug underneath it, branding it with a black waffle shape.
The weird thing is that when I got to London on Saturday morning, not a thing was familiar. Not a thing. Okay, maybe the Royal National Theatre I remembered. And Waterloo Bridge. But Francis took me to Borough Market, the oldest food market in London, for my first time. How could I have never gone there the entire year I was in London? I'd never even been near the London Bridge tube station.
Francis and I walked around the Tate Modern, which had not yet opened the last time was in London. TWELVE YEARS AGO. (How did I get to be old enough to say shit like that?)
After meeting up with Helen and her friend Ia, we strolled through Covent Garden. The only corner I remember was a Nike store that used to be a Shelley's (probably a decade ago). I also had vague memories of a Buffalo shoe store on that street. (Do any of you even remember those? They were these horrific platform sneakers in pastel colors popularized by the Spice Girls. THE SPICE GIRLS. And of course I wanted a pair. Good God.)
Wound up in a dusty old sherry pub called Gordon's on yet another street I didn't recognize, just off of the Strand, the street my university was on. Seriously, what did I do that whole year? I have no idea. I didn't drink, I remember that. Maybe all I did was stay in the house and cook. Am I going to come back to Stockholm in a dozen years and realize that I never left the house here either?
Dinner with Francis's sister Rosie and her husband Julian was at the Eagle, the original gastropub near Exmouth Market (another street I'd never seen). (Tart boquerones, sweet colored peppers with raisins and pine nuts, grilled sardines on crusty bread with chili jam, roasted tomatoes and arugula.) I totally copped out of staying up all night and wound up crashing in Helen's hotel room. Before midnight. So much for partying til the break of dawn.
The next morning, the cab company I had called the night before told me they had no cabs. My underground travelcard had run out, so I couldn't take a night bus. And it's not as easy to get a cab in London at that hour as it would be in Manhattan.
I waited for a bit and finally got a guy in a black cab, who then tried to convince me that the Stansted Express wasn't running. He said he'd take me to Stansted for 18 quid (even though it's usually 100 quid, he said). When I told him I didn't have the cash, he offered to take me to a cash machine. He kept asking me where I was from, talking about some girls from Ohio he drove to the airport last weekend.
At which point I was like, look, I have to see for myself if the train is running, because the website said it would. And he dropped me off at Liverpool St., and guess the fuck what? Station fully open, train totally running, first train leaving at 4:10, just as the website said. I thought the black cab drivers were the trustworthy ones. Innocence lost.
The lesson of this story -- no more weekend dashes for grandma. Next time I try a cockamamie stunt like that, can one of you please check me back into the nursing home?
I will say that when I got back, I really felt relieved to be home. Home! This place is home now!
What was grandma thinking?
Look, it's not that a 31 year old woman can't do a 12 hour trip to London. It's just that I can't do that. Not only that, I don't WANT to do it. I'll take a hot shower, clean sheets and a comic book over hard partying anyday.
Drinks by the Thames near Millennium Bridge. Obvs did not exist when I lived there.
But it was super fun to see Francis and Helen, if only for a few hours. I had all kinds of transportation mishaps, though. I took the bus to the wrong airport on the way over, but because I am a planner, I had enough time to take the express train back to Stockholm and pick up the correct bus to Skavsta airport. (Which, incidentally, is like a Barbie doll airport in the middle of a cow patch.)
It's strange because I hadn't been back to London since I lived there twelve years ago. Twelve years! I had a miserable time most of the year because I didn't force myself to go out and make friends.
I did really spend time cooking, though. I used to go to the Portobello Rd. Market every weekend to pick up vegetables from the loud hawkers, occasionally splurging on a few mushy, tart dolmas from the olive barrel stand.
On the flight over, I had little flashbacks of my year. I remember the view from the window of my craptastic apartment on Canfield Gardens off of Finchley Road. I spent the entire year wondering where the fucking gardens were. Suddenly, in May, that naked tree I'd been resenting all year clothed itself in lush green foliage. And I was on my way back home to California.
I remember the big pots of sauce I would make from fresh tomatoes, breaking them down over low heat until they liquefied. Or the spot on my roommate's carpet where the one space heater we shared melted the thin pink rug underneath it, branding it with a black waffle shape.
The weird thing is that when I got to London on Saturday morning, not a thing was familiar. Not a thing. Okay, maybe the Royal National Theatre I remembered. And Waterloo Bridge. But Francis took me to Borough Market, the oldest food market in London, for my first time. How could I have never gone there the entire year I was in London? I'd never even been near the London Bridge tube station.
Francis and I walked around the Tate Modern, which had not yet opened the last time was in London. TWELVE YEARS AGO. (How did I get to be old enough to say shit like that?)
After meeting up with Helen and her friend Ia, we strolled through Covent Garden. The only corner I remember was a Nike store that used to be a Shelley's (probably a decade ago). I also had vague memories of a Buffalo shoe store on that street. (Do any of you even remember those? They were these horrific platform sneakers in pastel colors popularized by the Spice Girls. THE SPICE GIRLS. And of course I wanted a pair. Good God.)
Wound up in a dusty old sherry pub called Gordon's on yet another street I didn't recognize, just off of the Strand, the street my university was on. Seriously, what did I do that whole year? I have no idea. I didn't drink, I remember that. Maybe all I did was stay in the house and cook. Am I going to come back to Stockholm in a dozen years and realize that I never left the house here either?
Dinner with Francis's sister Rosie and her husband Julian was at the Eagle, the original gastropub near Exmouth Market (another street I'd never seen). (Tart boquerones, sweet colored peppers with raisins and pine nuts, grilled sardines on crusty bread with chili jam, roasted tomatoes and arugula.) I totally copped out of staying up all night and wound up crashing in Helen's hotel room. Before midnight. So much for partying til the break of dawn.
The next morning, the cab company I had called the night before told me they had no cabs. My underground travelcard had run out, so I couldn't take a night bus. And it's not as easy to get a cab in London at that hour as it would be in Manhattan.
I waited for a bit and finally got a guy in a black cab, who then tried to convince me that the Stansted Express wasn't running. He said he'd take me to Stansted for 18 quid (even though it's usually 100 quid, he said). When I told him I didn't have the cash, he offered to take me to a cash machine. He kept asking me where I was from, talking about some girls from Ohio he drove to the airport last weekend.
At which point I was like, look, I have to see for myself if the train is running, because the website said it would. And he dropped me off at Liverpool St., and guess the fuck what? Station fully open, train totally running, first train leaving at 4:10, just as the website said. I thought the black cab drivers were the trustworthy ones. Innocence lost.
The lesson of this story -- no more weekend dashes for grandma. Next time I try a cockamamie stunt like that, can one of you please check me back into the nursing home?
I will say that when I got back, I really felt relieved to be home. Home! This place is home now!
Jealous! I miss London and I heart the Eagle. When I lived there I used to go there and to The Dove in Broadway Market all the time for Sunday lunch...
This is what I imagine it will be like when I go back to London again (studied abroad there in '06). I miss the city so much but I still feel like there was so much I didn't do and didn't take advantage of while I lived there (maybe London's just too massive to take in in even four months living there). So it's this weird mix of "I've missed you! Wait, do I really know you?"
Still, jealous that you got to go. Here's hoping I make it there before 2018!
I have just finished reading the last few month's of your life. As a NY'er, living in NY, I enjoyed everything I read. Thanks for a great read and I will keep up...